


Prom Part 2

by Eldalire



Series: In Time Gone By [2]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse, Alcohol, Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, High School, Prom, Swearing, trigger warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-18
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-13 18:03:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2159970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eldalire/pseuds/Eldalire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire wasn't planning on going to prom for many reasons, but Eponine and Combeferre save the day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Grantaire was having a tough week.

 

It was the Friday before prom, and he knew he was supposed to be excited, but it was tough when you couldn’t afford anything nice to wear, and your date had to pay for your ticket.  Not only that, but he had a brand-new bruise on his shoulder the side of a softball, as well as a split lip from his father’s latest rage the night before.  It took a lot for him to drag himself to school that Friday, but if he didn’t go, people would be suspicious.  The lip and the bruise could be explained away by the wrestling team.  His limp wasn’t from being pushed against the coffee table and toppling over: it was from ballet class.  Nobody would question him; nobody cared enough. 

            “Hey R.” Eponine called from behind him, running to catch up with him from the bus. He stopped and turned around.

            “Hey.” He replied quietly, sleepy.  He had been drinking heavily the night before, and was horribly hung over.

            “You look like hell.  Are you okay?”

            “Yeah…I have a history test today.  I was up all night…uh…studying.” He said.  Eponine nodded, suspicious.  She knew Grantaire was hung over, but she didn’t want to say anything. Not in front of her little sister, who was walking behind them.

            “‘Ponine I’m going to meet my friends in the library.  Bye, Grantaire!” Azelma said, batting her eyelashes at Grantaire. He gave her a little grin and a wave, his eyes hanging half-open, his chin unshaven and covered in dark stubble.

            “Were you drinking last night?” Eponine asked quietly as she and Grantaire walked to their lockers.  Grantaire nodded. He knew Eponine wouldn’t tell anyone. He knew she wouldn’t berate him.

            “Do you want me to get you help?  I’ll tell someone if you want me to.” She offered.

            “No. I’m fine.  I’ll stop.” He lied.

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah.”

            “Just…don’t take me to prom hammered, okay?”

            “Okay.”

 

—o0o—

 

Grantaire walked home at the end of the day, opening the squeaky screen door as quietly as he could, hoping not to wake his father who was asleep on the couch, a half-empty bottle of vodka hanging out of his hand, two more empty bottles on the floor.  He sighed before making his way to his bedroom, being careful to avoid the squeaky floorboards.

            His apartment wasn’t exactly pristine.  He lived in the lower level of a run-down duplex, and his father was a complete slob. The floor was littered with empty bottles of vodka and cheep beer cans.  The tiles in the kitchen were cracked, and there was a hole in the wall above Grantaire’s bed from when his father had tried to hit him with a bottle. Grantaire cleaned the bathroom every Saturday, unless his dad got sick and made a mess. His room was small and contained only a bed and a bookshelf, besides the closet, and he wasn’t allowed to open the window.  The room was sweltering in the summer, but Grantaire wouldn’t dare to disobey.  

            He sat down on his bed quietly and peeled open the book on his night table. Normally he would begin his homework as soon as he got home, but seeing as it was Friday, and his father wasn’t awake to shout at him, he figured he’d read a bit, calm himself down. He subconsciously grabbed a can of beer from the drawer in his night table and snapped it open, downing the entire thing in little more than a minute.  He crushed the can in his hand and tossed it at the trashcan beside the bookcase, but missed and hit the door with a loud clatter.  Grantaire’s eyes widened.  A moment later, he heard his father’s boots stomping down the hallway. He scrambled, hiding the beer cans on the floor, shoving them into the closet.  His father exploded through the door before he could close the closet all the way.

            “What the fuck are you doing?!” he screamed.

            “I’m sorry I was just—” Grantaire babbled, sitting on the floor, looking up at his father with wide green eyes.

            “Were you drinking?!”

            “No!”

            “Don’t lie to me, you little fuck.”  Grantaire said nothing.  His father, Jacques, yanked him up by the collar and back-handed him, his ring leaving a bloody red welt across Grantaire’s face.

            “Why the fuck do I let you stay here?!” he shoved Grantaire against the wall.

At this point in his life, Grantaire knew better than to protest or fight back. Since his mother walked out when he was three, he had become accustomed to beatings, and learned quickly that the best way to make them end quickly was to just take it. If he didn’t protest, his father would eventually get bored or feel he learned his lesson and stop. Sometimes—often—it didn’t work out that way, and his father would continue to beat him until either he or Grantaire passed out.  It wasn’t rare for Grantaire to wake up in the middle of his bedroom floor with blood all over his face and no recollection of the night before.

            “I should kick your ugly ass out!” he grabbed Grantaire’s dark curls in a fist and hauled him up.  “You’re a fuckup, Grantaire!  Nobody wants you!” He threw his son onto the bed and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

            Though he had gotten off easy with the physical abuse, his father didn’t usually cut that deeply emotionally.  Grantaire felt tears well behind his eyes, not from the physical pain, but because his father had just validated his greatest fear: nobody wanted him around.

Grantaire had been conceived at a house party attended by his parents, both 16 at the time. They were both drunk and apparently had sex on the kitchen table of the party host, in front of everyone. Grantaire was disgusted with himself just for being conceived in such a way.

When he was ten years old, his father told him in another drunken rage that his mother was a drug addict, smoked pot, and shot up cocaine her entire pregnancy with him. Grantaire had been born almost a month prematurely, and addicted to both cocaine and marijuana. He was in the hospital for six weeks with withdraw symptoms, and didn’t talk until he was almost two. When he was three, his mother left, opting to live with and date her drug dealer, and Grantaire hadn’t heard from her since. After that, his father began drinking heavily, and took out his anger on Grantaire. 

The worst abuse had been when he was about six.  His father was angry with him for something—he couldn’t remember what—and he had been thrown into the bathtub and had boiling water poured on his torso, scalding him heavily and leaving a long scar down his chest. 

Even through all the physical abuse, his father usually didn’t mentally abuse him, so the comment came as a surprise—a blow to what little was left of Grantaire’s self-worth.

He sighed and stood up, pulling on a sweatshirt and opening his window.  He hopped out and headed towards the nearby highway overpass.

 _Sorry, Eponine._ He thought, _give someone else my prom ticket.  Give it to someone who deserves it._

He cried as he approached the bridge, standing at the rail for a long while, thinking.

_Nobody wants you._

_You’re a good for nothing drug baby._

_You’re seventeen and an alcoholic._

_Nobody cares about you._

_Nobody wants you._

_You were a mistake._

_You’re still a mistake._

_You’ll always be a mistake._

He looked to the other side of the overpass, at the oncoming traffic.  He waited for a lull in passing cars.  He didn’t want anyone to get hurt on his account.  He didn’t want to cause an accident.  Just because his life was going to end didn’t mean somebody else’s had to as well.

He climbed over the railing and stood, looking down at the concrete thirty feet below him.

 _I hope this doesn’t hurt.  I hope it just happens quick._ He thought, closing his eyes, hot tears running down his cheeks.  He let go—


	2. Chapter 2

"What are you doing!” a slightly familiar voice asked, pulling Grantaire back over the guard rail, laying him down on the shoulder of the overpass. 

“Leave me alone!” Grantaire hissed venomously, pushing the young man away. 

“If I left you alone you’d be a bloody pulp on the ground right now!”  Grantaire opened his eyes and recognized the face a boy a year ahead of him in school.  He pulled out a cell phone, keeping one hand wrapped tightly around Grantaire’s wrist, and dialed the police.

“Who are you calling?!” Grantaire demanded.

“You have to go to the hospital!” he replied before the dispatcher picked up.  “Yes, I’ve just stopped a boy from committing suicide on the overpass near the Rue Plumet.  He needs to go to a hospital.  Thank you.” he hung up his cell phone and put it into his pocket.

“No! No I can’t go to a hospital!” Grantaire bawled, sitting up.  “Please no!”

“Nothing bad is going to happen!  They’re going to help you.”

“My dad will find out…shit!”

“It’s alright! People are here for you. People love you!”

“Not my dad! Fuck! Why does this shit happen to me?! I can’t even fucking kill myself right!” he pulled on his hair.

“Shhh. Just…talk to me. What’s your name?” he asked, sitting down next to Grantaire on the side of the road, his car parked a few feet away with the hazard lights on.

“Grantaire.” He replied, wiping his eyes.

“I’m Combeferre. You’re a Junior, right?”

“Yeah…” _why is this kid talking to me?  Why does he care so much?_

“Are you the one with all the artwork hanging around the hallways?”  Grantaire nodded.  “You’re really amazing.  That portrait of the girl with the dark hair is my favorite.” He smiled, his dark eyes squinting under his big round glasses.

“Thanks.” Grantaire said, shaking, beginning to realize the gravity of what he had almost done.

“You won that art award a few weeks ago too, right?  You were in the paper.”

“Yeah…Yeah I was.”

“And you were in that show! The ballet at the theatre down town. Geez I see your name everywhere!” Combeferre said with a smile.  “You’re very talented.  Very deserving of life, I think.” He draped his arm around Grantaire’s shoulders. Grantaire made no reply, but cringed as he heard sirens approaching.  Combeferre held him until the officer took over, scared that he would try to jump again should he let go.

“Is he alright? Does he need physical medical attention?” the officer asked.  Combeferre shook his head.

“I don’t think so.”

“Are you hurt physically?” she asked Grantaire.  He shook his head ‘no’ immediately, fearful that one of his many cuts or bruises would become evident.  Then he’d really be in trouble.  An ambulance was next on the scene, and a paramedic hurried over.

“I’m fine, I’m not hurt.” Grantaire said, tears coming to his eyes.  What would his father do to him?  He’d probably kill him.  He’d probably scream at him for being such a baby, for being too soft. Then he’d probably drown him in the bathtub or something.  Jumping off the bridge would have been faster.

“Do you have any family we can call for you?” the paramedic asked. 

“No! No please don’t call my dad.” He blurted, not realizing how suspicious that probably sounded to the officers.

“Alright…Let us take you to the hospital for a bit, check you out, make sure everything’s okay, and then we’ll see about calling someone, alright?”  Grantaire made no reply, but took Combeferre’s hand and let him help him.

“are you a friend?” one of the paramedics asked Combeferre.  He nodded.  “Would you like to come?”

“Sure.” He smiled. He always wanted to be a doctor, and thought it might be interesting to see the inside of an ambulance—not to mention he wanted to make sure Grantaire was alright, even though he hardly knew him.

 

—o0o—

 

Grantaire spent most of the evening in the hospital, numerous doctors and psychologists talking to him, giving him business cards, and asking him questions.  He had never been to a phychologist before, even tough he most certainly needed one, and was leery of the questioning. They asked such strange things; personal things; and Grantaire didn’t want to have to answer them.

            “Are you bullied in school?” one of the doctors asked.  _Does being completely ignored count as bullying?_ He thought.  He shook his head, no.

            “Any problems at home?”

            “No.” he replied quickly.  If they found out about his abusive father, things would get complicated, and he’d probably wind up being killed by his dad when he caught wind of this.

            “What is that cut on your face from?”

            “Cat.” He lied.

 

This went on for some time, questions, lies, telling them what they wanted to hear, until he was prescribed an anti-depressant and was told he would have to stay in a treatment facility for ten days.

            “I can’t.” he said, shaking his head.  “I can’t pay for it.”

            “Your parents will have to work that out with our financial officials.”

            “Did you call my dad?” he asked, tense.

            “We’re going to have to.  It’s alright. We’ll make sure he knows what’s going on.  Nothing bad will happen.” The doctor smiled. _I should have jumped faster._ Grantaire thought.

 

His father entered the room about half an hour later, all dressed and combed and clean, put together, normal. There was no unkempt hair, no five-o-clock shadow, no lingering scent of vodka surrounding him. He came in with a concerned and fatherly look on his face, and sat down across from the doctor as Grantaire sat on the examination table.

            “What happened?” Jacques asked both the doctor and Grantaire collectively.

            “Your son is suicidal.  He’s going to need treatment for at least ten days, possibly more.”

            “Alright. Does he leave from here, or…”

            “That would be ideal, yes.”

            “God I just…I don’t know why he would have done that…I’m sorry. I feel terrible.” Grantaire rolled his eyes and looked away.

            “Grantaire assured us it was nothing that you’ve done.  He’ll be fine.  We’ll treat him and have him home in no time at all.” The doctor smiled. Jacques smiled at Grantaire as well, not because Grantaire would be returning home, but because his son had been loyal to him.  He had kept their secret.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Ten days became three weeks when they found out about Grantaire’s drinking problem, and his father never came to visit. He wasn’t sure if he was glad for that or not.  On one hand, he didn’t have to be afraid of his father, but on the other, his own dad didn’t care enough to come and see his son.  Eponine came, though, and talked with him.  She brought him candy and made him cookies and sometimes just sat with him, making sure he knew she cared. 

            Combeferre also came to visit, usually on days when Eponine couldn’t make it. He would tell Grantaire about funny books he’d read, or about how his dog had eaten a bug. Combeferre was good at making Grantaire laugh, and they were soon good friends.

            “Do you have any pets, then?” he asked, sitting on one of the benches out behind the treatment facility.

            “Nah. I don’t think I’d be able to keep anything alive for long.” He admitted with a smile.

            “Try a fish or something.  All you have to do is feed them and clean out their bowl every now and then.” Combeferre grinned.

            “Yeah maybe.” He replied, with no intention of ever getting a pet. His father would kill it the second he got angry at Grantaire.  He was good at destroying things Grantaire valued.  That’s why he never brought home any of his artwork, and never told his dad about his awards.  They were all tucked away safely behind his bed, stacked against the wall, safe.

 

            When the day of prom rolled around, Grantaire sat out in his room, feeling guilty. Eponine had been nothing but kind to him, and he had ruined her prom night.  She told him she only wanted to go with him, and assured him he would be released by then, but when he wasn’t, he couldn’t help but feel bad.

            Eponine didn’t visit that day, and soon it was evening.  Grantaire figured she had found someone else to go with, and he hoped they were having fun.  He hoped Eponine’s night wasn’t ruined, even though his was.  He looked forward to her visits, and missed her when she didn’t come.

            At around seven that evening, there was a knock on his door. He peeled himself up to answer it, rubbing his eyes, and was surprised to see Eponine, smiling broadly in a long purple dress, her hair done in curls and made up with shimmery eye shadow and lipstick.  Grantaire grinned.

            “‘Ponine, what are you doing?” he asked, dumbfounded.

            “Taking you to prom.” She said, taking his hand and pulling him out into the deserted hallway, into the ‘common room’ of sorts, where there were sofas and a TV. She pushed the coffee table out of the way and fished her iPod out of her bra shamelessly, flipping on a happy, slow song before replacing it.  She grinned with a little blush before taking Grantaire’s hand, guiding it to her waist, holding the other.

            “I don’t believe you did this.” Grantaire said.  “I’m in my pajamas.”

            “That’s okay.  We’re listening to music from inside my bra.  I don’t think the pajamas are our biggest issue.” She chuckled.  Grantaire laughed.

            “I don’t know how to dance.” He admitted, looking at his socks beside Eponine’s high heals. 

            “That’s okay.  I don’t really know how either…I feel like you sort of just…like…” she swayed side to side, turning slowly as she did so, taking Grantaire with her.

            “I can handle that.” He smiled.

            They danced together for almost an hour before they were interrupted by the squeaking of a cart.  Grantaire stopped and looked over his shoulder, frightened he would be in trouble for being out of his room, but smiled when he saw the cook with a cart of cookies and ice cream.

            “That’s one nice girl you got, Grantaire.” The cook, an older man, said with a smile.

            “Yeah. Yeah she is!” Grantaire agreed. Eponine handed him a bowl of ice cream with a smile before taking her own.

            “You did all this?” he asked, sitting on the sofa as the cook left the room, leaving them alone again.

            “Yup. Just because you’re in treatment doesn’t mean you don’t deserve a prom night.” She said with a shrug. She took her phone out again and texted something quickly.  A moment later, Combeferre arrived with a camera, dressed in a suit and bowtie with a matching top hat.

            “Prom pictures!” he said, grinning.

            “Oh my God I am in my pajamas!” Grantaire said again, looking down at his baggy white t-shirt and plaid flannel PJ pants.  “I don’t even have shoes on!”

            “Who cares?” Eponine said, hauling him up off the sofa and smiling. He draped his arm awkwardly over her shoulder and grinned, his smile crooked—like the rest of him. Combeferre snapped the picture on the little digital camera, looking at the little screen and smiling before snapping another one.

            “Let’s do dumb ones.” Eponine suggested, licking Grantaire’s cheek before he could protest or even register what was going on.  Combeferre snapped the picture, laughing at Grantaire’s reaction, glad he had managed to capture it.

            “That’s not gross at all.” Grantaire said, wiping his cheek off on his shoulder.

            “Makes for a good picture, though.” She smiled.  “You need to shave.  There’s stubble on my tongue.”

            “Okay, _you_ licked _me_.” He laughed.  Combeferre hurried over to them and took out his cell phone, holding it out as far as he could reach.

            “I want to get in one of these.” He said as they made goofy smiles into his phone.

            “PROM SELFIE!” Eponine said, making her voice high and squeaky. Combeferre chuckled.

            “Facebook profile.” he said.

            “Oh please no.” Grantaire joked. 

 

They continued talking and laughing for another hour before one of the staff members asked them to leave.  Combeferre waved goodbye as he left, and Eponine gave Grantaire a hug.

            “Not such a bad night, huh?” she said.  “I mean, it wasn’t really a prom, but…”

            “It was better.” Grantaire grinned.


End file.
